


Out of the Closet

by BeneficialAddiction



Series: Boxers, Briefs, and Other Shorts [25]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: "Am I stepping on your moment?", Closets, Confessions, First Kiss, M/M, Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 13:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14833238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Clint, Coulson, and a Closet.





	Out of the Closet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SteeleHoltingOn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteeleHoltingOn/gifts).



> For SteeleHoltingOn, who offered me the prompt when I needed a distraction.

It's not uncommon for Clint Barton to find himself in situations that he later comes to regret. He seems to have an uncanny knack for it in fact. He walks into things with all the innocent confidence and carefree nonchalance of a child, and usually even manages to enjoy the chaos that inevitably follows, right up until everything goes wrong. 

He takes some comfort in knowing that his childhood kind of set him up for this. If you want to understand how... all _this_ could happen, just take a look at his circus years. Seriously - what kid hasn't wanted to run away and join the circus at some point? It had seemed like a good idea at the time, the only option really, and to be perfectly honest Clint _had_ enjoyed a lot of the life he'd led at that time; feeding the tigers, playing with Ursula the Asian elephant, learning to shoot - but the rest? 

Yeah, joining Carson's had probably been a mistake, and he'd regretted where he'd ended up after, who he'd become. 

Joining SHIELD is kinda starting to turn out the same way. 

At the time he was recruited, he'd once again found himself in the familiar position of making a choice that wasn't really a choice. He'd followed Senior Agent Phillip J Coulson in from the cold with a bullet in his thigh and a smirk on his face, knowing full and god-damn-well that he was about to have some fun, and that he would probably (hopefully) live to regret it. 

He enjoys every minute. 

He's even enjoying this one, crammed up in a tiny linen cupboard in a beach house in Acapulco with a couple of drug-running goons sitting down to lunch just on the other side of the door. 

He's going to regret it, he knew that before he grabbed Coulson and hauled him into the dark, cramped space and shut them in together, but he's smart enough to enjoy what he has while he has it. 

It's just, he's kind of in love with his boss, see? 

Coulson's everything that turns him on wrapped up in one sexy, authoritative package, all competence and courage and cunning. He's a spy's spy, with backup plans for his backup plans, and he's proved himself worthy of Clint's admiration and respect time and again. 

Loyalty hard-won but unwavering, Clint's made his peace with the fact that he would walk into fire at Coulson's instruction in his ear. 

He thinks it's ironic that he's the one who pulled them both down – hell has never looked so much like a linen cabinet. 

A juvenile joke about closets and coming out springs to mind and Clint bites down on a self-deprecating snicker; he's flirted with nearly everyone in SHIELD for one reason or another. If it _had_ been anyone else pressed up close behind him in the dark, literally, _anyone,_ he would have cracked it, but it's Coulson's body squeezed in between him and the shelves all hard and hot, and he's got just enough self-control in him to bite his tongue and keep quiet. 

It's not that he's never flirted with the man, ok? He flirts with him over the comms all the time. It had started as a way to test him as a handler, then to push his buttons, but eventually it had become heavy and real and made Clint want things he couldn't have, so he'd stopped. Coulson had actually been concerned when it came down to that, and if Clint hadn't been completely gone already that would have been the final straw. 

Regardless, he's not an idiot. 

Oh, he likes to play stupid, especially for the assholes who believe the act, but Clint knows what's up. He knows he's a better shot than your average bear, knows he's got skills beyond the bow, but he has no delusions either. 

Coulson's got class coming out his ears, has never given any indication of his sexuality, and is way out of Clint's league. 

So he keeps his mouth shut. Keeps his hands to himself and his secrets safe. He handles the crush, tolerates the rapid heartbeat and the warm-and-fuzzies, the butterflies in his stomach. He does his job, only allows himself so many hours a week crashed out on the couch in Coulson's office, and makes sure he brushes off thanks for coffee deliveries with the appropriate level of casual. 

This? 

This might be enough to break him. 

He's biting down on his lip so hard he tastes blood. 

"Can you _move?"_ he hisses under his breath, ear pressed flat against the door, both because he can hear the bad guys on the other side better and because there's hardly room to breathe in the closet between the two of them. "You're gun's in my back." 

Behind him Coulson goes dead still for the space of two heart beats. 

That's how close they're pressed together – Clint can actually feel the guy's heart thumping against his own back where Coulson's plastered against him. 

It's painful. 

It's muscle and heat and strength, soft, damp puffs of breath against the side of his neck, the smell of Coulson's cologne and the hard length of steel pressed against him where his ass is cradled between Coulson's hips and he's _dying_ here... 

"Wait. Didn't you lose your..." 

The metaphorical lightbulb clicks on just as Coulson stiffens and tries to pull away, and the stupid Hallelujah chorus sounds in Clint's head as he does what he does best and gets ahead of himself. Reaching back, he scrabbles blindly and ends up with his free hand wrapped around Coulson's upper thigh, muscles tight with tension, holding him. 

"Don't," he says, low and hoarse with emotion, not control. "Don't." 

It's not a lot, but apparently Coulson makes sense of the single word, understands exactly what Clint means. 

_Don’t pull away._

_Don't leave me._

_Please._

He can't exactly go very far – Clint knows that – and he knows too that heat and proximity and friction can earn a physical reaction even in the most uncomfortable of circumstances, but he's pretty sure he just showed all his cards despite the lack of light in the closet, the hushed darkness between them. 

"Clint..." 

Relief is a wave rushing through his chest, the tide going out so he can breathe again. 

As hesitant as he sounds, Coulson doesn't call him Clint – he calls him Barton or Agent or Hawkeye, and that... that means something. 

Right? 

It's stupid and it's risky what with the bad guys moving around just on the other side of the door, but Clint doesn't think he can wait. His time in the circus serves him well as he draws on all his considerable flexibility to turn around, to wriggle his way beneath Coulson's arm and face him. Pressed together face-to-face it's pretty obvious to both of them that Phil – Phil, _Phil_ – isn't the only one affected by being wedged into close quarters, and he hopes that’s enough to get a lot of his point across because he finds himself at a sudden loss for words. 

"Phil..." 

Screw it. 

The kiss is hard and deep and intense, and for all of a second Coulson doesn't respond, just long enough for Clint to start cursing himself for a two-bit, idiot carney. He's about to pull back and apologize when Phil surges forward, presses back into him and fists his hand in Clint's hair. He moans into it, long and low, licking into Phil's mouth and gripping the lapels of his suit tight, pulling him in even tighter. The world tilts, and he doesn't realize that they're actually falling until his back hits the floor, the air huffing out of his chest as Phil lands on top of him hard, blinking against the sudden rush of bright, natural light flooding the living room as they come spilling out of the closet. 

Natasha stares down at them, one hand on the closet doorknob and one eyebrow arched in an expression that is entirely unimpressed, two bad guys bound and gagged on the floor behind her. 

Clint freezes, terrified. 

Coulson stares down at him, mouth red and swollen, eyes searching, and in that moment half a dozen fears and futures flash in front of Clint's eyes. 

This could well be the end of every good thing he has, the point where the fun stops and the gut-wrenching regrets begin. 

Then Phil leans down and presses a quick, light kiss to his lips and pops easily to his feet, tugging his jacket back into place. 

"Huh," Nat says, tilting her head as she looks their handler up and down. "Is _that_ why you turned me down last year?" 

Coulson smirks at her, shoots his cuffs and wanders off to start searching the house for the hard drive they were looking for in the first place. 

Clint just whimpers, dropping his head back to the floor with a painful _thunk._


End file.
